smackenzie

The night crossing from Southampton to Le Havre is rough and choppy. Captain Henry Bradford – Harry to his friends and his little sister – stands on the deck of the steamer that has been commandeered to ferry troops across the Channel, listening to the sounds of men chatting and complaining and occasionally being sick over the railing. He can understand that last – he has been across the Channel before, more than once, but tonight the water seems unusually rough. He could almost believe it to be a sign from god that they're not meant to go to France, or at least that they're not meant to go tonight.

"You're not going to be sick too, are you?" says a voice over his shoulder. "I would have thought you had more intestinal fortitude than that."

"I was just thinking," Bradford answers.

"Don't do yourself an injury." The person behind him chuckles and moves over to stand next to him at the railing. Captain Edward Cuthbertson – Ted or Bertie to his friends – tall, lanky, blond, and inexplicably cheerful. Cuthbertson has a stunningly beautiful wife named Victoria and two small and equally beautiful children, and is so far one of the very few men on this steamer who is entirely unaffected by the choppy ride. "What are you thinking? Is it worth sharing?"

Bradford shrugs. "Just that if I were the kind of man who saw signs and portents, I might well believe the rough crossing is a sign that we're not meant to go to France."

"It's a good thing you're not the kind of man who believes in signs and portents, then. We can't turn back now. Besides, if we weren't meant to go to France, we never would have made it to Southampton. The boat would have sunk in harbor before we could board."

Bradford turns to look at Cuthbertson's face, and he's grinning.

"Buck up, Harry," Cuthbertson says, clapping him on the shoulder. Bradford can almost hear the soggy slap of the hand against his damp jacket. He feels wet from all the spray. "We'll go, we'll kick the Kaiser's men in the teeth, we'll come home. All these boys" – he waves his arm around and back, encompassing the rest of the men on the boat – "are expecting – well, I don't know what they're expecting. A calmer crossing. Glory and adventure and meaning and purpose."

"Dry blankets and hot tea." Well, that's what he could use right now.

"And that." Another companiable pat on the shoulder. "I think Dix is getting up a card game to distract some of the officers from the rough crossing. You should join us. We don't have tea, but it's dry." And with that he leaves Bradford and heads inside.

Alone again, Bradford takes off his hat and rakes his fingers through his hair. He wonders where his odd mood is coming from. His parents and sister were so proud when he received his commission, and now all he wants is to throw it away.

He hopes this mood passes because Cuthbertson is right, and they can't turn back. They should reach Le Havre in the morning. He and Cuthbertson and Dix and the rest of the men will receive their marching orders, and then it's on to the front where he will need to keep his head if he wants to bring himself and his men back alive.

Buck up, Harry, he reminds himself, echoing Cuthbertson for the second time. He runs his hand through his hair again, smiling to himself as he imagines his sister shaking her head and telling him what a shame it is there won't be anyone around who can appreciate his curls. He puts his hat back on and follows Cuthbertson's path inside.

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